


of carmine secrets and infectious diseases

by bbiesonthebbq



Category: Power Rangers (2017)
Genre: Character Study, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Light Angst, Minor Injuries, POV Minor Character, Post-Canon, Relationship Study, Sickfic, Strained Relationships, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:34:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25622194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbiesonthebbq/pseuds/bbiesonthebbq
Summary: “I’m not hungover, I swear.” Jason lets his head fall back to the toilet seat and shuts his eyes.“Then you either ate something bad or picked up a bug.” Sam crosses the tile and leans down, sliding his hand over his son’s forehead. A fierce heat he didn’t quite anticipate licks at his palm like a flame and Sam hisses through his teeth.“Definitely a bug,” he mutters. “You’re burning up.”
Relationships: Jason Lee Scott & Sam Scott
Comments: 12
Kudos: 74





	of carmine secrets and infectious diseases

Sam leans back against the kitchen counter, sipping his coffee and appreciating the view of the misty morning outside the window. It’s Saturday. Pearl had a sleepover at a friend’s last night and he probably won’t have to worry about picking her up until the afternoon. Beverly kissed him goodbye before heading out to the office early.

He has to drop Jason off at dentition and then for a little while, Sam will have the place to himself. He loves his family dearly, of course. But he feels like he could use some personal space, a few hours of downtime where he could scale some fish for dinner without Pearl shrieking at the sight of lifeless silver eyes, play some old Gordon Lightfoot cassettes at full volume without Jason or Beverly sharing near identical expressions of distaste, or perhaps even reflect upon the fact that he’s almost 100% sure his son runs around in shiny red armor and fights alien killer robots. 

Well, they’re not always robots. The one last night didn’t look like a robot. 

Sam had watched the breaking news report as the battle unfolded live. The Power Rangers, as they’d been dubbed, had fought what initially appeared to be a woman in insectoid armor, who had then transformed, very disturbingly and surreally, into a giant Eldritch abomination with slashing tentacles that reminded Sam of sea lampreys as long as skyscrapers. That’s what its lower half was like. Its upper half was just as monstrous in a different way, rigid and spiky with demonic horns protruding from its massive, fiendish head. 

Jason wasn’t home while any of this was happening, of course. Didn’t pick up his phone when Beverly called him. And when he returned late after dark with a split lip and a bit of a limp, he’d claimed he’d been nowhere near the danger. Simply taken a fall off his bike on his way to seek refuge at Zack’s place until the whole thing blew over, missed his mother’s call only because his phone had gone dead. 

Beverly had sighed, mussed her hand through her lovely hair, and tiredly told Jason he needed to start being more responsible about charging his phone, because that had been the fourth time one of them had tried to reach him during an attack and couldn’t. Sam had rubbed his lips together, looked Jason straight in the eye, and told him to watch where he was going while bike riding. He looked at him and said this with what he hopes was a neutral, authoritative mask, in truth not the least bit convinced his son had even taken his bike out of the garage that day. 

Being almost positive beyond a shadow of a doubt that Jason spent the better part of the evening defending Angel Grove from a gargantuan villain from outer space, Sam has been patient and given him some leeway this morning. Given him more time to get up, deciding not to make a fuss if he drops him off a few minutes late. A few minutes is fine. 

But at this point, it’s a quarter till and if they don’t leave soon, it’s going to be more than a few minutes. So Sam sets his coffee down and ducks down the hall, preparing to gently but firmly tell his son it’s time to haul ass, so they can each get their days going. He raises a fist to knock on the door and jerks in surprise when it’s suddenly flung right open. 

“H—“ 

Jason abruptly shoulders past him, hand clamped fast over his mouth. He practically flies into the bathroom. Sam hears the bodily sound of him crashing down to the tile immediately followed by the sounds of retching, and the solid splash of spew into toilet water. 

Frowning, Sam shuffles down the hall and stops outside the bathroom door. Jason hadn’t even bothered to close it in his haste. He’s bowed before the porcelain throne as if he’s worshipping it, head snapped over the bowl. Sam winces as he watches him throws up again, crinkling his nose against the sour odor. 

“Don’t tell me you’re hungover…” 

His son’s been more responsible as of late, but that doesn’t mean Sam wouldn’t put it past him to stray. Maybe he and his other colorfully armored comrades celebrated their victory against Angel Grove’s latest invader with a kegger. 

They’re heroes, but they’re also teenagers. At least, Sam is operating on the assumption they are. It has not gone unnoticed to him that right after The Encounter, Jason is constantly in the presence of four new friends Sam had never seen him hang out with prior to. He’s almost 100% sure that his son is the Red Ranger. He is about 95% sure that these friends, all who come over donning at least a hint of pink, blue, black, and yellow in their outfits, make up the rest of them. 

Jason lifts his head, glancing to Sam with a few chunks of vomit still clinging to his chin. 

“I’m not hungover, I swear.” Jason lets his head fall back to the toilet seat and shuts his eyes. 

“Then you either ate something bad or picked up a bug.” Sam crosses the tile and leans down, sliding his hand over his son’s forehead. A fierce heat he didn’t quite anticipate licks at his palm like a flame and Sam hisses through his teeth. 

“Definitely a bug,” he mutters. “You’re burning up.” 

Jason’s eyes flutter open again. Up close, they seem to glitter too brightly, red-rimmed with discomfort. Sam swallows and slides his hand to his son’s cheek, flips it to the backside when his palm becomes too accustomed for it to really register how damn warm he is. 

“How long you been feeling bad?” 

Jason blinks slowly, gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Had a headache last night.” 

Sam draws his hand back. “I’ll call you in, okay?” 

Jason’s brows knit together and for a moment, Sam almost thinks he’s going to protest and insist on going to detention, of all places. What actually happens is that his hands clench around the toilet bowl again and his chin hooks over the rim of the seat as he purges some more. 

Oh yeah, it’s a bug, alright. Bad bug from the looks of it. Sam adds getting the Lysol out from under the kitchen sink to his mental list of priorities. He needs to spray everything down before Pearl comes home, at least. One sick kid is worrisome enough. 

Sam slips out of the bathroom and makes the call. He gets the Lysol out from underneath the sink and leaves it out in the middle of the table so he won’t forget to spray. He drinks the rest of his coffee in a single gulp and its still hot enough to warm his throat. Then he pads back back the hall to check on Jason. Finds that he hasn’t left the place in front of the toilet, cheek resting on the seat as he shivers. 

Before, Sam had been so taken off guard by the display of Jason so suddenly, violently ill, he hadn’t noticed the bruises. But now he does and he stops short before he steps over the threshold, gaping openly. 

“Jesus, Jason.” 

“Fell off my bike, remember?” 

“Did you ride it off the edge of a cliff?” 

Jason’s clad in nothing but red plaid boxers, the battered canvas of his torso totally exposed. There’s bruises mottled over bruises, over more bruises, all shades of blue and purple spattered over older fading yellows and greens. Scabs and scratches crisscross over puffy welts. His legs are still folded under him, so Sam doesn’t get the full picture of those, but he sees the beginning of a cut along his calf that doesn’t look deep but does look like it _could’ve_ been deep, and that’s bad enough.

“Practically,” Jason mutters. “I was going down that big hill on Mayward Street, lost control of the breaks.” 

He’s getting better at lying and Sam doesn’t know how to feel about that. He can’t call him out on it, because that would mean explaining how he knows Jason is lying. That would mean talking about things that are too new and too strange for them to be able to talk about, especially as rocky as their relationship has been the past few months. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Jason adds in a way that sounds meant to placate. 

Sam sighs and kneads at the tense knot between his shoulder blades. 

“Well…you need a hand?” 

Jason shakes his head. “I’m good.” 

Sam raises a brow, skeptical. Jason tenses and begins to rise and Sam can see the will leak out of him. He gives a quiet groan and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“On second thought, I might stay here for a minute.” 

“You gonna be sick again?” Sam asks. 

He shakes his head. 

“Okay, then it’s time to get up. I’m not gonna leave you on the floor, using the toilet for a pillow. That’s gross.” Sam shuffles over and extends a hand. 

“Gross,” Jason scoffs in disbelief. “Coming from the guy who messes with dead fish all day.” 

“I don’t have my dream job, but I do have standards. Scott men have standards, c’mon, let’s get you up.” 

Jason blinks his eyes open and wearily accepts the outstretched hand. Sam pulls him slowly, charily, very aware of all the bruises and how sore he must be today. Jason wordlessly leans against his shoulder. 

Sam helps him stumble along to his room, thinks to himself that he doesn’t like the look of Jason’s complexion one bit. His cheeks are red as the armor he dons to fight alien invaders, flushed with the fever Sam can feel baking off of him with every step. A sheen of perspiration glitters on his features, beaded at his temples. 

“Let’s get a number on that temperature once you’re settled in.” 

Jason exhales a sigh that sounds exasperated, but he doesn’t voice any dissent. He peels himself away from Sam and eases himself onto the mattress in a stiff, stilted way that confirms he’s just as sore as Sam suspects. He crawls under the covers and listlessly drops his head back into the pillow. 

Sam gets the thermometer afterward and Jason passively lets it be slipped under his tongue even though he still doesn’t seem wild about the idea. Feels too old to be coddled by the concern, maybe? Or perhaps the attention makes him feel claustrophobic after he’d had so much of it yesterday, at least five news vans swarming the battle downtown. 

Sam thinks about yesterday’s breaking news and the bruises and chews his lip as he watches the numbers climb into the triple digits. It stops with a reading of _102.1°F_. Sam frowns at it and then at Jason.

“You’re feeling really lousy, huh?” 

“I won’t bitch, but…” 

Sam gives him a warning look for the language. 

“…I’ve had better days, yeah,” he mumbles. 

Sam sets the thermometer aside and strokes a hand through Jason’s hair. Its sweaty, greasy, feels unpleasantly lank and damp between his fingers. Jason blinks up at the contact, seems a bit surprised. Sam realizes it’s been awhile since he’s shown his affection so openly. He thinks, in light of recent events, he could stand to do so more often. Keeps doing it now, cards his fingers through his son’s hair featherlight in motions he hopes are soothing. 

“You’re nauseous, you’re feverish. What else is going on?” Sam tilts his head. “Sore throat or chills, or anything?” 

“I’m a little cold,” he admits, subdued, gaze half lidded. “Don’t suppose we’ve got another blanket kicking around?” 

“I’ll get you the throw from the couch,” Sam says, “And something to drink. What do you want?” 

“Nothing, I’m set.” 

“Orange juice it is then,” Sam decides, not unkindly. “You need to stay hydrated.” 

Jason blinks at him, impassive. He gently pats his shoulder and his lips twitch in something Sam chooses to interpret as gratitude. 

* 

*

* 

The latter half of the morning is calmer than the first. Sam checks on Jason intermittently. Gets on him to drink the damn juice, after he returns a second time to find it untouched and _yes,_ the whole glass, because he’s sweating like a pig. Jason grumbles something about pigs not actually sweating, but still sips the glass when Sam stares at him expectantly. 

Sam putters around the house, spraying everything down with Lysol. Spraying the bathroom down twice for good measure, because there’s still a whiff of sour odor in the air. For a little while, Jason watches some movie on his laptop, curled on his side, hand over his stomach. Bout a quarter to noon Sam pokes his head in again and finds he’s fallen asleep, and by that time, the glass is empty. Good. 

He idles in the living room for awhile, reading the newspaper. There are at least three articles about the rangers and various alien attackers. There’s also an article about the unexpectedly high caterpillar population this year. Sam reads that one first. 

He pops one of his Gordon Lightfoot cassettes in after all, keeps the volume lower than he would if he were alone. Hums along to it as he reads, fingers drumming. When he finishes the paper, he debates saving it for Bev, decides better of it. She won’t need it, she reads the news on her cell phone these days. Isn’t old school like he is, isn’t as attached to the sensation of parchment and ink in hand. 

So Sam folds the paper up and puts it in the recycling bin, makes himself a sandwich around one o’clock. Turkey, tomato, mayonnaise. Eats it in front of the television, gets pretty into this daytime soap opera about overdramatic people and their melodramatic romances. Sam will never tell another soul on the planet he likes soap operas, but he thinks Bev might suspect. Thankfully, if she has, she’s never confronted him on the matter. 

It ends just in time, because ten minutes later, Pearl calls and says she’s ready to come home. Sam rolls his shoulders and goes to check on Jason again. He’s still dozing and for a moment, Sam debates on whether or nt to wake him, before deciding he should. Assess him again, how he’s feeling, ask him if he needs anything from the store since Sam’s going out anyway. 

“Hey,” he says, resting the back of his hand to his son’s burning cheek. “Jason.” 

Blue eyes flutter open, glassy, bleary. They blink a couple times and settle on Sam.

“Hmm?” 

“I’ve gotta go pick up your sister. Do you need anything?” 

“Nah,” he mumbles with a small head shake. “M’good.” 

But he doesn’t actually look good,not good at all. His face is still blotchy with deep flush and slick with sweat. It still beads at his temples, glistening around his nostrils, catching in the dimple of his upper lip. His features are drawn in discomfort. There’s an unnerving liquid brightness of his eyes and a rough dullness in his voice. 

“But Dad?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Tell Pearl to stay away from me to today. Whatever this is, I don’t want her to catch it.” 

Sam nods in vehement agreement. “I’m not letting her within ten feet of you, J. Bug’s got you knocked off your feet and she’s half your size. Don’t even wanna think about what it’d do to her.” 

“Good.” Jason seems relieved. “I don’t, either.” 

“I do want to get another read on your temp before I go.” Sam plucks the thermometer from the bedside table. 

“I can do it myself.” Jason starts to sit up, rising on his elbows. 

“You can also humor your old man.” Sam gives him a pointed look. “Just cause you’re almost grown doesn’t mean I can’t worry about you.” 

And he worries about him a lot, these days. Doesn’t think he’s ever worried about him more, truth be told, running headfirst into danger from worlds unknown. He’s proud of him, of course. For being so brave, for leading the team that keeps their town safe. But pride and fear are not mutually exclusive emotions. 

Jason puts up no further protest, gaze shifting to the wall as Sam slides the thermometer under his tongue. It climbs up to _102.4°F_ before it stops and Sam slips it free, gut lurching in concern. 

“You’re really cooking in your skin,” he gasps out, setting it aside, helplessly feeling at his son’s cheeks and the sides of his neck. “Maybe we need to go to the clinic.” 

“No, please,” Jason groans quietly. “It’s…it’s fine, okay? Just lemme sleep it off.” 

Sam chews on the thought, rakes a hand through his hair. Feels like it’s getting thinner by the day. 

“Well, alright,” he agrees reluctantly. “Hell, if I hauled you in there with those bruises, next thing you know they’d be calling CPS. Looks like I beat the crap outta you.” 

And someone did. It wasn’t Sam. It was someone— something —infinitely bigger and more dangerous than Sam could ever be. 

“I had a dream about that,” Jason says suddenly, thoughtful look falling over his face. “I mean, it wasn’t really you though. I was still me, kinda, but I was also like, someone else. And I had a dad who definitely wasn’t you and he kept beating me, and there was some…some shadow in my head?” 

Sam begins to wonder if Jason is somewhat delirious, or at least teetering on the edge of it. 

“Super strange things happening,” he goes on, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Started to freak me out, a little.” 

With everything that’s been going on, Sam supposes he shouldn’t be surprised he’s having nightmares. 

“Fever dreams,” he rationalizes anyway. “They’re known for being kind of bizarre.” 

Reality has been just as bizarre since The Encounter, but that goes unsaid. 

“M’glad you woke me up,” Jason says, swallowing as he looks to Sam with something vulnerable in his eyes. “Glad you’re you and not whoever I was dreaming about.” 

And Sam does something that he hasn’t done in at least a decade. He gently cups his hand around the back of his son’s neck and brushes a kiss over his forehead, feverish skin prickling against his mouth. When he pulls back, Jason looks downright dumbstruck, but not displeased. Eyes wide like saucers. 

“We won’t worry about the clinic just yet, but let’s try Tylenol, okay? Try to get those numbers down?” 

“Sounds good.” 

“But you shouldn’t take it on an empty stomach.” 

Jason grimaces, hand sliding over his middle. “That part sounds less good.” 

“Just a little something, something light,” Sam coaxes. “Slice of toast. One slice of toast?”

“Okay.” Jason nods, though he doesn’t seem particularly thrilled about the idea. 

Same gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze and backtracks his way to the kitchen. He might be a tad late getting Pearl, it seems, but it should be fine. She didn’t sound like she was in a hurry when he’d spoken to her. Sam puts one slice of bread in the toaster and refills the glass of orange juice. When it pops out, he puts it on a plate and although he only mentioned toast to Jason, he grabs one of the small, single serve cups of applesauce out of the refrigerator and puts that on the plate too. Places down a spoon. 

He isn’t going to be upset with Jason if he doesn’t manage to eat it all, but he’d rather provide more than less. The kid hasn’t eaten all day and he’d missed dinner last night. Too busy saving the town to make it home in time. 

Worry gnaws at Sam’s like a rat with dull teeth and he does his best to ignore it. He garnishes the plate with a blister pack of extra-strength Tylenol he digs out of the junk drawer by the dishwasher. Plate balanced on one hand and juice glass gripped in the other, Sam heads back to Jason’s room. Gets surprised to meet him in the doorway.

Jason looks just as surprised to see him, one hand braced against the doorframe for support. His too bright eyes flash down to the plate and his mouth drops open. 

“Oh…I thought you were leaving to pick up Pearl…” 

“I am. Just wanted to make sure you got this first.” 

“Could’ve got it myself, Dad,” Jason says, shifting from foot to foot and leaning a little more into the doorframe. “M’sick, but I’m not like…useless.” 

“No one said you were. But you should take it easy and no offense, but the kitchen can do without your germs all over it.” 

Jason's lips pull into something wry. “Gee, thanks.” 

He takes the plate and the glass, and plods back into his room. Sam watches, wary of the way he’s wobbling. Can’t take his eyes off the bruises. Doesn’t take his eyes off him until he’s made it to the bed. 

* 

* 

* 

After picking up Pearl, Sam stops at the supermarket and peruses a few things. He lets Pearl pick out a frozen pizza for dinner because it won’t smell as strong as the salmon he'd previously planned on. Sam can save that for later this week, when Jason isn’t feeling so queasy. 

He stocks up on the specialty ‘thirst quencher’ Gatorade because it boasts itself as a rapid replenisher of electrolytes and Jason’s definitely running low on those. Sam buys the blue cherry flavor because he knows that one is Jason’s favorite even though he doesn’t understand how such a flavor can exist when blue cherries definitely don’t. 

When they get home, Pearl goes to the garage instead of the door, getting her tub of sidewalk chalk. Sam decides this is as good an opportunity as any to spray the house again. Just in case. Jason’s mostly kept to his room today but whatever he’s picked up is something nasty and neither of them want anyone else to get it, especially not Pearl. Jason’s the hardiest one in the house and Sam hasn’t seen him this sick in years. He’s praying it’s just a 24 hour flu and nothing more. If Jason’s this sick tomorrow, the clinic isn’t optional anymore, no matter how much neither of them will enjoy trying to explain those bruises away. 

The first thing Sam does is take everything he’s just bought out of the bags. He packs the pizza in the freezer and the Gatorade in the refrigerator. The next thing he does, is get the Lysol out again and give everything another dousing of disinfectant. When he passes Jason’s room he notices it's empty and starts in surprise. 

Sam swallows, anxiety stirring in his stomach. Lord, he hopes nothing is happening with aliens, or monsters, or robots, or alien monster robots. His son is in no condition to fight today. Sam sets the Lysol down on the hutch in the hall and fishes his phone out of his pocket. 

He is a heartbeat away from calling Jason when he hears a thunk from the basement. Sam pauses. He heads around to the basement door and notices light shining under the crack. Pocketing his phone, Sam flicks his tongue over his lips and pulls it open. He trots down the steps and relief floods through him when he does indeed find Jason there, muttering as he gives the washing machine a shake. 

“What’re you doing, J?” 

Jason turns over his shoulder, frustration open on his face. 

“Can’t get the stupid washing machine going.” 

Sam shuffles across the basement floor and surveys the situation. 

“There’s your problem right there,” he diagnoses, pointing to the plug lying on the floor, instead of in the socket. 

“Oh.” Jason completely deflates, looking as pitiable as an amateur clown’s balloon animal. “Okay, I’m officially a certified idiot.” 

Truth be told, Sam doesn’t always disagree with that sentiment. But he doesn’t say that. What he does is plug the washing machine back in even though he’s pretty perplexed. Jason usually has to be reminded to do his laundry, either by himself or Bev, when he’s neglected his hamper for so many days that the gym sock smell starts seeping through the walls. 

“Why are you doing laundry now? Didn’t we talk about, you know, taking it easy today? You should be resting in bed under the covers.” 

“The covers are what’s in there.” Jason jerks his thumb at the washing machine. “Kinda threw up on them.” 

Uh-oh. Sam winces in sympathy. 

“You okay?” 

Jason shrugs and fiddles with the washing machine dial. Turns it over to the setting for colors and pulls it out. The machine hums and then begins to fill. 

“Well, if you’re cold, you could borrow one of my sweatshirts,” Sam offers. “They’d be bigger on you, might be warmer.” 

“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” Jason sighs tiredly. 

“I can tell you’re cold, J. You’re shivering.” 

“Shirts hurt right now.” Jason fans his fingers over the ugly aubergine splotch on his side and Sam’s mouth drops open in realization. 

“What, you didn’t think I was just showing off all this for the heck of it, did you?” His lips curl with dark humor. “Not a fun time when I lift my arms too high, think I must’ve bruised my ribs last night...in the bike accident.” 

Yep, the bike accident. Sure. Sam rubs his temples in dismay, wondering how long he can keep playing dumb for. When he’ll ever be able to broach the topic of the Red Ranger. Or if Jason will ever bring it up himself. What they’ll tell Beverly. If Beverly already knows, actually, if she’s just pretending she doesn’t and tiptoeing around it like Sam and Jason both do, in their own ways. 

“You’re having a pretty crappy week,” Sam says eventually, finds it’s the only thing he feels like he can say when there’s just too much they can’t actually talk about. 

Jason opens his mouth as if to speak, then abruptly shuts it again. He whirls around, snaps forward over the wash tub sink, and hurls. Sam is shocked there’s anything even left to bring up. Even when Jason’s done throwing up, he doesn’t move. He remains bent and tensed over the sink, gripping its edges so tight, his knuckles blanche. 

Sam takes a couple steps forward and reaches around him to flick the faucet, rinsing the foul contents down the drain. Then he shuts it off and moves his hand to his son’s back, gently kneading at it in small circles he hopes are soothing. His skin prickles uncomfortably hot. 

“Ready to head upstairs?” Sam asks, soft. “Gotcha some of that Gatorade you like upstairs.” 

Jason peeks at him curiously. 

“Though who came up with it, I couldn’t tell you. Never in forty years have I ever seen a blue cherry…” 

Jason gives a weak smile and bobs his head. Sam watches him go up the steps first, holding fast to the railing. Sam follows close, close enough to catch Jason if he stumbles, which he’s frankly a little worried he might. He’s moving like he’s dizzy, or lightheaded or something. Weaving a little bit on his feet. Not quite steady.

But luckily they both make it upstairs without incident. Jason ambles back to his bedroom. Sam peers out the front window to check on Pearl. She seems content, chalk in hand, drawing dinosaurs in the driveway. Good. 

Sam scrubs a hand over his face and gives himself a shake. He gets one of the Gatorade bottles from the fridge, tucks it under his arm, and fetches an unfavorable fuzzy, fleece holiday blanket from the front closet. It’s dark green with a cartoon Santa Claus face printed in the middle. They never bring it out, not even for Christmas, because when Pearl was a toddler it used to make her cry. 

Sam never really blamed her for it, either. The Santa face isn’t jolly at all. He’s a grown man and even he’s a bit freaked out by how psychotic its rictus of a smile is. How soulless its eyes are. But it’s the only spare blanket they have, because Jason evidently puked on the throw as well as his own comforter. It’ll have to suffice. 

Sam brings him the blanket along with the Gatorade and if he wasn’t sure of just how miserably ill Jason was feeling earlier, he’s positive of it now. His son cocoons himself in the Santa blanket the whole family hates without a single crack about how creepy it looks. 

“I’m assuming the Tylenol didn’t stay down?” 

Jason shakes his head and seems embarrassed, almost. Averts his eyes and focuses on unscrewing the cap on the bottle of Gatorade in lieu of looking at Sam. 

“Alright. We’re gonna try to break your fever the old fashioned way then.” 

At this, Jason looks up. A little bit of the familiar spark comes back to his eyes and it eases a touch of Sam’s worries. 

“You’re not dunking me in an ice bath,” he declares immediately, no room for argument. 

“No, no, not that." Sam waves a hand. "I’m gonna get you a cold compress.” 

Jason lets out a sigh of relief and takes a tiny sip from the bottle. 

“Okay,” he says when it pulls it from his lips. “That I can live with.” 

Sam nods and ducks out. He checks on Pearl again. She’s still doodling dinosaurs in chalk. He briefly wonders if he should be concerned that she’s drawing what appears to be a tyrannosaurus rex eating a small sauropod. Huh. He'd always worried that Jason should’ve waited to introduce her to Jurassic Park…

But that’s a problem for another day. 

Sam shuffles off to the kitchen for what must be the hundredth time since six o’clock. He’s been back and forth all day. Doesn’t feel like he’s had much of a day off at all. He’s a bit disappointed, could’ve used a break. Ah well. He’ll suck it up. Sometimes life just throws a wrench in your day. He’d never even think of blaming his son for being sick. 

He fills a decent sized bowl with cool water and dunks in a clean washcloth, allowing it to soak. He returns to Jason’s room, walking slowly so he doesn’t spill any over the sides. Makes space for the bowl beside the fish tank. Jason regards him with weary eyes, hideous holiday blanket pulled up to his chin.

He scoots some toward the middle of the bed, giving Sam more room to sit on the edge. Sam does just that and spares him a small smile while he wrings the washcloth out. Jason’s eyes flutter closed as Sam gently places it on his forehead. 

“How’s that feel?” 

“Cold,” Jason murmurs. “Cold but not bad. Thanks.” 

“It's nothing.” 

“No, seriously, Dad.” He opens his eyes and frees a hand from the Christmas blanket cocoon, tugging at Sam’s sleeve. “Thanks for everything today. I still feel pretty crappy, but, uh…I think it’d be a lot worse if you weren’t around. Like, I might be passed out in my own puke or something.” 

“We definitely can’t have that,” Sam says, internally cringing at the imagery. “So you’re welcome. Is there anything else I can do?”

Jason releases his sleeve, but he doesn’t tuck his hand back under the blanket. Retracts it only an inch or so away from Sam’s, nearly but not quite touching. 

“Um, got any new stories from the boat?” he ventures. 

Sam can’t say he isn't surprised to hear that, and he cracks a grin as an unexpected warmth fills his chest. 

“I’d say I’ve got a few…” 

**Author's Note:**

> world needs more power rangers whump.


End file.
